


to help me to leave all my blues behind

by NaomiLeyers



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, POV Saxa, Post-Canon, Saxa Lives, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaomiLeyers/pseuds/NaomiLeyers
Summary: in which Saxa lives but has rather mixed feelings about it and luckily for her, Sibyl’s feelings are not that mixed
Relationships: Saxa/Sibyl, background Agron/Nasir - Relationship, past Gannicus/Saxa, past Gannicus/Sibyl
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	to help me to leave all my blues behind

**Author's Note:**

> as always, nothing belongs to me except plot, all characters belong to Steven deKnight and the starz, all mistakes are my own and the title is from Donovan’s Catch the Wind 
> 
> I hope this finds you all well <3

They live.

It is almost anticlimactic, Saxa thinks as she watches the army under the hill burn. There is no magic and there are no miracles and she thinks of the way Gannicus held her wrists a in tight enough grip that she can still feel bruises as he whispered to her _You cannot let them get his body_ the night before battle.

(He is dead or will be soon. Saxa knows that; she had left him on the battlefield alone, surrounded by Roman soldiers and she doesn’t think she is ever going to forgive herself, but the way he grabbed her hand and told her _go_ was clear enough. She can still feel her hands shake and she is covered in blood that is mostly not her own and she will never stop thinking about the way Spartacus looked at her when she threw her daggers at Crassus’ reinforcements, and took a hold of his own discarded swords, shielding him, until Agron and Nasir arrived.)

Being it as it is, she wraps her arms around Nasir’s waist, and she rests her face against his back as he charges the horse to gallop. _They are running away._ They are running away and leaving their army behind, _leaving Gannicus behind_ and Naevia and gods know who else and she forces herself not to scream or throw up, but she can feel the tears falling from her eyes. (If Nasir notices it, he chooses not to mention it, for what she is immensely thankful to him.)

When, finally, the horses stop, she doesn’t even try to pretend she can handle standing on her own. Nasir catches her, wrapping his arms around her and halfway supporting her, while who-cares-what-his-name-is runs to Agron and helps him lower Spartacus on the ground.

Of course they stir interest; their little group of survivors forms a sad circle around them; Spartacus sent away women and children and the elderly, but it doesn’t matter now; there must have been another attack (possibly from Pompey, if Saxa should take a guess) and there cannot be more than twenty people and they truly give a pitiful impression – it was stupid of them, Saxa thinks, to stay and fight, all of them. It had seemed noble when Spartacus asked them and she knows it was the best thing they could do back then, but it doesn’t change anything about the part where they sent children and women away, unprotected.

Belesa isn't around, is the next thing she notices, still leaning mostly against Nasir and the man must be exhausted but he doesn’t let go of her and she feels thankful for that. (It almost breaks her heart, to not see Belesa, almost. They could have become _something_ , but it lasted too short and so now she is not as much a lover lost as another failure in Saxa's ever growing list of failures.)

Sibyl and Laeta are, unsurprisingly, there. (It makes sense, Saxa thinks bitterly and she hates herself a little for it; it is not like anyone here would risk Spartacus' or Gannicus' lover getting hurt; she was in that position herself and she hated every second of being treated like glass, not because what if she was displeased but because what if _Gannicus_ was – and this ways lays madness and she forces herself to push thinking about Gannicus aside.)

Both women look tired and Sibyl’s eyes are cold and unforgiving, but she doesn’t say anything, just rushes past Saxa to kneel at Spartacus’s side and Nasir lets go of Saxa to assist her, which leaves Saxa staring at them, being fucking useless and isn't that a wonderful summary of her entire life?

She ends up sitting on the cold ground, leaning against a rock, with tears streaming down her face and decisively not thinking about Gannicus or Mira or Belesa, or her family in Germania.

Spartacus dies two hours later.

Saxa watches her friends cry, her own eyes dry (she fears she has cried all the tears there were in her) and she presses nails of her right hand into the back of her left hand hard enough to draw blood.

“Thank you,” Laeta tells her softly when her own tears disappear. “I said that to Agron and to Nasir and – they probably would have managed to come on time, but they cannot be sure. So for all I know, without you he would have been in Crassus’ hands by now. So – thank you.”

Saxa almost manages to smile at her and she only doesn’t tell her that if it were up to her she would have stayed back there with Gannicus and Naevia, facing the Romans till her last breath, because she doesn’t think it would help anyone and so she sighs and takes a step forward and hugs Laeta.

“I am sorry I didn’t come sooner,” she admits – and that is true. She wishes she had come there soon enough; she wishes she had come there when Crassus was alone with Spartacus and not surrounded by a dozen soldiers. She also wishes she had stayed on the battlefield, guarding the ballistae and fighting Romans and she definitely wishes it were _Gannicus_ and not _her_ who went to defend Spartacus, because maybe, just maybe, he could have saved him on time and then Spartacus might, just might, still be alive. (She doesn’t say that to Laeta either.)

“You did all you could,” Laeta answers, her breath warm on Saxa’s face and Saxa is sure she should protest some more, but she is tired and so she just presses closer and allows herself to be held for a moment.

The funeral is quick and anticlimactic, too.

They do not have time for long speeches – and the truth is, there is no one who could give one. Nasir and Agron are warriors, not orators, Laeta cannot stop crying since they started gently placing rocks around Spartacus’ body to create a barrow, Sibyl is staring at the horizon with her face set and eyes tired, no one else knew Spartacus as anything more than a god and Saxa – well. She isn't covered in blood anymore which is definitely hell of a plus, but she still cannot close her eyes without seeing Lugo burn or without seeing Gannicus kiss her in a storm of fire (it’s not like she thinks the kiss meant anything; they used to be lovers and he was going to die and she was hesitating, not willing to go and arguing in the middle of battle and kissing her was always an effective way of shutting her up) and she thinks she couldn’t give a speech in the common tongue if her life depended on it. (She only considers giving the speech in German for a second, just to spite Spartacus in the afterlife.)

As it is, they finish forming the barrow in silence, then Agron leaves his shield on the top and they all stare at it for a while, silent still and lost in thoughts and then they walk away, their tiny group of survivors, all that is left of an army that was once making Rome tremble with fear.

They move.

They fight occasional searching groups of Roman soldiers, praying they will not meet a bigger group because they are exhausted and almost defenceless, really. (Saxa is selfishly thankful for the way Agron’s hands are healing, because it means he _can_ fight with a normal sword now, even though it _also_ means he will probably never be able to heal completely and live without pain given how much he is straining the newly healed muscles now, but it is not like he has that many options; in between their group of twenty she and Nasir are the only two other warriors and neither of them has as much as slept ever since they ran away from their decimated army.)

She stabs through the last soldier in the searching group with much more force than was needed and then she stands up to check on the others, to make sure none of them is breathing and none of them escaped.

By the time she returns, the fires are lit, and the stew is prepared. The three of them along with Sibyl and Laeta are sitting around one of the fires, left alone by everyone – it is not, that they are distancing, she thinks, it is that the others are, not that she can blame them. They are gods – fallen and failing, but they are still gods, Agron is still a gladiator, one that survived the outbreak in Capua, attempted crucifixion and every battle in between, Saxa and Nasir are still warriors who were a part of the Rebellion almost from the beginning and Sibyl and Laeta are – well. _Important_.

“Eat,” Sibyl tells her softly, handing her a bowl with a stew and Saxa accepts, too stunned to refuse.

“Gratitude,” she murmurs and the other woman gives her a tight smile and returns to her own food.

“We should get near the Alps in a few days,” Agron says eventually, Nasir’s arms wrapped protectively around his waist as if he fears the German might disappear if her lets go of him.

“And what then?” Laeta asks, her voice sad and tired – not that Saxa cannot relate to that feeling. “Does any of you know the way through the mountains? Because if I remember the books correctly, it took Hannibal fucking _elephants_ to get through them.”

“There are mountain passes,” Saxa answers before Agron can. “The people living in the shadow of mountains will know them. All we have to do is ask.”

“What if they won’t give a true answer?” Laeta shoots back, unimpressed, and Saxa decides she understands why Spartacus liked her – she also decides she _shouldn’t_ throw her from a mountain but she leaves that option open for further contemplation.

To her surprise it is Sibyl who answers.

“Romans usually don’t live that far north – and if they do, they trade with people living behind the Alps. They have to pay taxes but do not have that many rights. They’ll help us, especially if-“ she hesitates, looks at Saxa, sighs, blushes and her voice is softer when she speaks up again. “Gannicus spent a couple months in one of those villages and the people liked him.” She takes a deep breath. “They _will_ help me.”

No further discussion follows. And, when Saxa leans back on her elbows, watching Sibyl stare into flames with tears in her eyes but composed, she can’t help feeling mildly impressed.

They are almost at the Alps, close enough to see the mountains, when they intercept a letter to the legion in Gallia, informing the soldiers of the crucifixion of all captured rebels. There is no mention of Naevia, but the news mentions it specifically, that, despite not getting Spartacus, one of Spartacus’ generals was crucified. (The letter mentions crucifixion _after_ some creative torture which Saxa wills herself to _not_ hear about.)

Saxa pointedly stabs through the already dead soldier carrying the message with much more force than necessary, just for good measure and then she stumbles back, blood on her hands too bright and almost blinding and she thinks _it should have been me, why couldn’t it be me_?

“Because he made a choice,” Sibyl tells her and her voice is sad but her arms are strong as she steps forward and catches Saxa’s hands in her own, the touch gentle but sure and _has she just spoken out loud_?

“You did,” Sibyl says and Saxa thinks she should say _something_ , should ensure her she is alright, but she feels like throwing up and like fainting and she can still _taste_ the smoke from the ballistae on her tongue.

“Fuck,” she whispers and Sibyl lets go of her hands and instead leans closer to hug her and Saxa doesn’t even try to hold back tears.

She isn't sure how long they clung to each other, two women Gannicus used to love, but eventually she leans back.

“I am sorry,” she whispers.

“You couldn’t have done anything,” Sibyl tells her softly and somehow that’s what breaks her.

“I should have been there,” she says, feeling useless and exhausted, so fucking exhausted and she doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve Sibyl’s gentle touch. “I should have stayed, I should have fought with him, I should have-“ she takes a deep breath, forces herself to sound calmer than she feels. “It should have been him. He should have been the one to leave- to get out. Not me.”

Sibyl doesn’t answer, possibly because she is too polite to agree. Saxa decides she doesn’t care and instead lets herself press again her some more.

Sibyl, apparently, was right in thinking she will be welcome in the village.

The villagers round up around her, curious, and they keep asking questions- they offer them to stay for a while, get some rest and they promise to show them the way through the Alps and they are sent to get some food and sleep, but Sibyl is decisively asked to stay and tell them about the rebellion.

Saxa volunteers to stay with her in case the villagers change their mind and so she leans back against the door in their meeting hall, listening to Sibyl’s soft voice when she speaks about the gladiators who broke free from the ludus in Capua. (Saxa doesn’t know much about that – she never asked- she never _cared_ but Sibyl tells the story with so much emotion as if she were there.)

“We should eat something,” Sibyl tells her many hours later, when she is finally released from the story-telling duty and Saxa smiles a bit and she leads her to the room they were given- the villagers may not care to much about Rome, but they still made them share where Laeta, upon hearing she was an aedil’s wife, was given her own room.

“You don’t owe him your life,” Sibyl tells her, biting into a piece of cheese and Saxa almost chokes on her wine.

“Excuse me?”

The not-a-slave-anymore gives her a faint smile.

“Gannicus. It was his decision. _He_ sent you to find Spartacus and _he_ decided he would stay there. In any moment he had the freedom to say no. He could have gone find Spartacus himself, he could have gone find him with you. He chose to stay and fight. You don’t have to feel like you owe him your life- nor should you feel guilty for being alive when he is not.”

And fine, it sounds almost logical, the way she says it.

“You should hate me,” Saxa states anyway and Sibyl shrugs.

“Why? It’s not your fault they were ruined.” Her eyes are cold and Saxa can’t help but wonder when exactly the weak girl, hiding from looks of anyone, did change into this woman, kind and yet withstanding. “The death on a battlefield would be the second-best thing to happen to him, after the death in arena and we both know that. We both know the ludus broke something in them – something that no one could fix. But it is not your fault.”

“It shouldn’t have ended up like this,” Saxa says eventually.

“No. It shouldn’t.” Sibyl agrees, almost amused.

Then she kisses her.

Saxa kisses back, surprised but enthusiastic.

“Why?” she manages to whisper, not that she is complaining, and Sibyl laughs against her lips.

“We are alive,” she answers. “I know we are not each other’s first loves. But-“

Saxa smiles at that. “But we don’t have to be,” she agrees and she kisses her again.

Afterwards they lay curled up on one of the beds, Sibyl’s face half-buried in her neck and Saxa’s fingers trailing invisible lines on Sibyl’s skin.

“Are you going to run away?” she asks softly and Sibyl laughs, rich and _real_.

“The first time I did this with Gannicus, it was in the middle of a snow-storm. I am not that easily scared,” she says and Saxa is reminded, disturbingly, of the fact that Sibyl has only ever slept with her and Gannicus and then she decides to not analyse it further, possibly ever, if she can help it. 

“It is different with a woman, though,” Sibyl adds and Saxa smirks.

“Glad you noticed,” she says and Sibyl laughs, punching her lightly into the arm.

“I know we are not each other’s first kiss,” Sibyl says then, her voice soft. “Nor are each other’s first love. And it definitely feels wrong that we have both loved the same man- that we _still_ love the same man.” She moves so that she can look down at Saxa. “I don’t care. I’ve had my share of pain- I doubt we’ll ever be free of it and I don’t expect to ever love you with all my heart- I don’t expect you to love me with all yours either. I don’t believe in fairy-tales anymore. But I do want you, Saxa. In any way you’ll have me.”

“When did you prepare that kind of speech?” Saxa asks her, amused, making her blush, a beautiful shade of pink.

“Well, we can’t all master daggers,” she says and Saxa laughs and kisses her again.

“I can work with _any way I’ll have you_ ,” she whispers then and Sibyl laughs and lets her roll them so that Saxa is on top of her.

Later that night she finds herself standing outside (she left Sibyl asleep and curled up in a fort of blankets), shivering slightly in the night’s air.

She’s far from alright, she thinks- she doubts she’ll ever be, any of them, but she doesn’t feel like breathing hurts anymore and when she looks down at her hands, she doesn’t see blood on them for the first time since she grabbed Spartacus’ swords to defend him.

“I’ll take care of them,” she promises the night around- if they hear her in the afterlife, they don’t answer, but the wind shifts and caresses her face and she suddenly doesn’t feel alone anymore.

THE END


End file.
